


Coda

by alba17



Category: Mad Men
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-29
Updated: 2010-09-29
Packaged: 2017-10-12 07:22:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alba17/pseuds/alba17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For prompt: "Don/Betty - post-divorce hatefuck". Takes place at Gene's birthday party in the episode, "The Summer Man." 4.08 Slight dub-con vibe, although it's basically consensual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coda

"Why'd you come here today?" Betty demands, brittle and tense, her body a quivering arc.

Don notices a few stray strands of pale hair lifting haphazardly out of her otherwise tightly reined coiffure. He waits a beat before saying anything, fishing his cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. He puts a cigarette in his mouth.

"He's my son," he says, lips curled around the cigarette, lighting it with a metallic click.

Betty watches the smoke curl upwards. She reaches for her own pack with long, elegant fingers; pulls one out, lights it. She blows the smoke out sideways, cupping the elbow of the arm holding the cigarette. "You're the one who left."

"Let's not get into that." Don stands up and paces a bit. "You didn't waste any time moving on." He turns away from her.

Betty's eyes, the color of ice, flick down to the cream carpeting, then back up. She shifts her arms, bare in a silk turquoise shift. "I didn't have any choice," she bit out, lip pouting defiantly. "I had three children to think about. Which is more than you ever did." She turns, arms clutching her sides, sucking on the cigarette with a kind of desperation.

"I'm not even going to respond to that," Don says, meandering around the room looking for an ashtray. Impatiently, he stubs out his cigarette, then loosens his tie, exhaling noisily. He stares at Betty, mouth tight with frustration, before dragging his eyes away.

She sits rigidly on the edge of the couch, eyes narrowed in suspicion, her neck like the stiff stem of a sunflower. The smoke from her cigarette rises lazily up to the ceiling, mingling with the smoke from Don's.

The silence blooms, underpinned by faint murmurings from the party in the other room. Betty's eyes snap in annoyance when a child yelps loudly. Like a bird flying out of a bush, Henry's laugh bursts through the low buzz and Don stands up suddenly, face unreadable but with an air of urgency.

"I've got to go." As he strides toward the door, Betty waylays him with a hand on his upper arm. "Don't." The word escapes like a prayer from her bright red lips; her eyes flash brightly at him in some kind of semaphore.

"Okay." He looks at her, wary and curious. But her eyes are averted as she trails her hand down his arm, a finger lingering on the outside of his hand.

"Betty." Don's voice is low, a note of warning.

She clutches his hand and her fingers are moist; her body moves into his, twining around him, as if she could fill all the dips and hollows in his body, the empty spaces.

Surprised, Don just breathes her in for a moment; his hands move to hold her without even thinking. Her scent is home, everything that's gone, and he realizes he just can't. He pushes her away. "No." He thinks of Gene in the other room; his eyes that are just like Betty's, his nose just like his own.

Once again, a deep, masculine laugh carries from the party, and Don thinks, well, he doesn't think at all, there's just a flare of want, the need to reclaim her as his. Changing course, he pulls her to him, hands molding her familiar hips, slender and spare, and she opens her mouth to his with a quick exhale, a sigh of need. The way her body bends into his, the taste of her mouth, the texture of her hair running through his fingers – it's like no time has gone by, like nothing's happened, like there isn't another man out there whose ring she wears on her finger now. And he's grateful; grateful for the familiarity, the illusion of normality it brings for just this moment.

They clasp and groan, mouths slick against each other, the tug of desire pulling their clothes into disarray, and Betty's tugging at his zipper. Suddenly he's hard, his cock thrumming against her agile hand. He knows exactly what she's going to do, the way she'll touch him, and his erection swells predictably.

No, he's not going to give in to that, that's not what he wants now, and he pulls away from the familiar touch. That's the past. Instead he pushes her away, a little harder this time. She stumbles back onto the couch, a glimmer in her eye, a glint of self-satisfaction that makes him want to fuck that little look right off her face. He's breathing hard now, looming over her and he fumbles under her dress, pulling at the slippery undergarments, the bare flesh of her thighs almost there, almost there.

As he rushes to get at her, he thinks, Henry Francis has been here. He's felt that soft swell of pale upper thigh, kissed the blonde curls between her legs. He's lapped at her clit, thrust his cock inside her and felt her come around him. He knows every inch of Betty as well as Don.

The party's still going, someone could come in at any time, and part of him wants it, wants to be seen taking her, owning her. She might be married to Henry now. But Don will make her remember the man she was once in love with.

With possessive force, he rips the hose down, running his hands down her bare thighs. She whimpers and mutters his name, arches her hips towards him. He bends to nip at the tender skin inside her thigh, milky pale, once gently, the second time with a scrape of teeth, enough to leave a mark, and she flinches, then slides her thigh against his face with a moan.

Then he's pushing down his pants and briefs, the belt buckle jangling, and he's on her with no preparation, shoving himself in mercilessly and she grunts at the suddenness of it but doesn't try to stop him.

She's still, eyes closed, but her tongue is peaking out of her lips, pink on red, and he claims it, sucking it into his mouth, the taste of her lipstick another ghost from the past. Her leg comes up around his, curling around his calf, over the bunched-up fabric of his pants, and he pushes into her more, all the way, the feeling of being inside her mixing up with all the other memories of her.

Their first time, he'd reveled in thawing her chilly beauty, thrilled to have acquired this embodiment of everything he thought he wanted in life. Did he ever really know her? Maybe he never really wanted to; maybe he'd been content to have a living trophy who went through all the appropriate motions.

She felt the same as always, as he moved inside her, and it suddenly seemed surreal, that she'd borne him three children, but now his life was as removed from hers as the man on the moon. What did she want from him? He never knew. He thrust into her over and over, working it, getting sweaty now, and she lay there, refusing to look at him. But her hips canted upward so he could delve deeper and her breath came faster.

Going through the motions.

He knew what she liked. He brushed her nipple, tweaked it, and kissed her again, biting down on her lip. She mewed in response and went after his mouth with questing lips. Fuck, that sound... it went straight to his cock, and he drove into her. Another tweak of her nipple and her body stiffened in spasms he could feel deep inside her, as she gave a long sigh of satisfaction. His own release came quickly after, waves of shuddering pleasure that ended in the sudden realization that he hadn't used a condom.

Shit.

Maybe she was on that new pill. But he didn't want to think about that. Pushing those thoughts aside, he purposefully bit at her neck, that long, lean elegant line. She tried to pull away at that, knowing what he was trying to do, but it was too late. The splotch of vivid red was already darkening.

Let her explain that to Henry Francis.


End file.
